Collateral Damage
by PhunniestElaphant
Summary: Denial can make people commit terrible things. As is the case for Brad. After hearing a rumor of Patrick and Charlie's kiss, Brad's denial drives him to reacquaint Charlie with the trauma he's tried so hard to forget. (Warning: Reader discretion is advised)


A Burglary in The Vacant House

 **A/N:** Warning: graphic depiction of sexual assault. Reader discretion is advised.

It happened when Charlie tripped over the letter A.

It was chilly, but he didn't mind. The cold weather was like a fluffy, soaped-up loofa – it helped him clean his head. Focusing in on the bitter cold gradually numbing his skin brought him into the present. The sensations of the slight wind pushing his body forward, as if it were urging him to move on, made him grateful. He relished the fact that he was aware of it all. It was proof he was alive.

As he was daydreaming about how alive he was he failed to notice the large, A-shaped brick in the center of the sidewalk. He kicked it hard with his Vans and body-slammed the sidewalk with the grace of a handicapped swan. The contents of his backpack scattered around him. His right shoulder ached, and the world spun like he was in the center of a merry-go-round, but instead of horses he suddenly saw a bunch of guys in lettermen jackets.

A hand latched onto his bicep and lifted him up from the ground.

"You good, man?"

The sky stopped spinning, but his mind was now in full gear. Five football players from his school team were crowded around him. Brad's face emerged, and he waved his finger back and forth like he was a doctor checking for concussion.

"Brad? What's going on?"

Brad grinned at him, but then it melted away into anger. "Not much, Charlie. Just some payback."

And with that Charlie saw the flash of a fist, the instant throbbing of his jaw, and blackness.

Charlie smelled paint. He slowly came out of his unwilling sleep, and saw a small rock moving inches from his hurting nose with each breath he took. A car honked above them. They were under an overpass, shaded from the evening sun. Fresh blue graffiti spelled out something underneath him, but he couldn't read all of it. His wrists were chafed by something sleek and thin, digging into his skin.

"What's this about, Brad?"

"You know I'd hear about it, Pat."

Charlie turned his head and blearily peered up to see Patrick. Two of the jocks were holding him up by his arms, pulling them behind him almost beyond what nature would allow. His nose was bloody, trails dried crusty on his mouth and chin. Brad stood in front of him, his arms folded over his chest.

"Hear about what?"

"You trying to turn this straight pussy into a faggot like you."

"Do not call him that."

Brad threw a punch into Patrick's chin, his face whipping to the side. Blood sprinkled onto the concrete.

"You're a virus, you know that?! You ruined my life, and now you're trying to ruin everyone else's. Spreading your disease!"

Charlie felt the first prick in the back of his eyes, the first knock before his emotions broke through the door like a SWAT team at a bomber's house. All Patrick had done was show Brad how much he cared.

How could that be wrong?

He hit Patrick in the gut, huffing from adrenaline and effort. Patrick sagged in the jock's grip.

"You decided who you are, Brad! I didn't turn you into anything that you didn't want to be!" Patrick's words were hoarse, like he'd just inhaled from a car exhaust. His hair flopped over his eyes.

Charlie started crying then, the unpleasant panicky kind he hates. "Stop! Please, stop! Patrick still loves you, can't you see that?"

Brad turned and stared straight at Charlie with eyes smoldering. "He ruined me. He's trying to ruin you, too." He walked to Charlie and stomped his big foot into the center of his spine. "You really want that?"

Charlie coughed, trying to regain oxygen. "You don't ruin things by loving them." Charlie said all garbled. His lungs felt tight like a plastic toy car slowly being crushed by a combat boot. They were really going to hurt them.

"You do if you're a gay-ass fag!" Brad stomped his full weight into Charlie's back, and he yelped. He struggled against his ties and squirmed a few inches away, gravel sliding into his jeans. Brad's hand replaced his shoe, snagged itself into Charlie's hair, and pushed his face into the ground. It scratched his cheek as dirt flooded his mouth.

"Let him go, Brad!" Patrick elbowed one of the jocks, but they shoved him to his knees, the crack of his knee caps echoing against the two slanted concrete walls.

Charlie felt Brad's fingers on the waistband of his jeans, and he froze. Everything felt wrong, immediately. The kind of wrong that buries itself into his chest like a maggot, or a parasite. The kind of wrong that brings about the impulsive urge to scratch off his own skin, to hide in blackness, to tape his eyes shut. But he couldn't move. He just shook. His whole body trembled.

Flashes of a memory twirled around his brain. The sounds of TV static, and restrained, heavy breathing. Confusion. Shame.

"Stop," Charlie whispered. "You're better than this." He wanted to believe that.

"People aren't as good as you think they are, Charlie." Brad said, as he pulled off Charlie's shoes.

"But-but they can be. You can be, Brad!" Charlie blurted, the fear and adrenaline zapping through his body like a bolt of electricity.

Patrick fought harder against the two other boys and managed to free one arm and land a punch. "Don't do this to him! It will make you just like your father! You won't find peace through denying who you are!" Patrick fell to the ground, shaking, as the shorter jock pushed a tazor into his back.

"Make him watch!" Brad shouted. Charlie's pants were yanked down his body. A sob escaped his throat.

"Shut up." His boxers left him. Hot hands roamed his back, his calves, his thighs, his…

Each touch was a brand. Burning, burning, burning.

 _Don't wake your sister_

Charlie met Patrick's eyes. They were red and wet. He was crying for him.

Charlie turned his head. He couldn't bear to see him watch.

 _Shhhhhh…._

The weight of Brad's body squished him, and then he felt pain. It was sudden and excruciating, like someone had impaled him with a cattle prod. He screamed and yanked at his restraints until he felt blood trickle down his wrists. A puddle formed under his head from the cocktail of his tears and spit. He felt his skin tearing. With each thrust the skin on his hips was eroded by the ground like sandpaper.

Grunts echoed around him. Brad's hand yanked his hair like a leash.

 _Shhhhhh…._

The world zoomed out. He focused on the single pebble in front of his nose. It was pointy on one end, like it could've been forged into some sort of fancy pencil, maybe even a sword. He imagined himself fighting back, with an embroidered cape and a gold helmet. Dodging every attack like an ace fighter.

It would be cool to be a super hero. He could save people. Protect them. Protect Patrick.

Protect himself.

Is that selfish?

"... _first time, is it….?"_

Charlie saw a faint glimmer of red swimming around in the puddle. His nose must've been bleeding.

"…- _op squirming_ …"

Brad slithered his hand back into his boxers. Sensations were drawn from him like a forced apology.

…why did they have to make Patrick watch…

His siblings didn't watch…

Shame felt like a backpack stuffed with hub caps and metal scraps, bricks and wrenches, and it was seared onto his shoulders. Stars were dying in his chest. Hollowness became a physical presence in his body.

He felt empty. His body was a vacant house, and he was witnessing a burglary like a cold bystander from a street corner.

The pain grew gradually until he began to see black orbs on the corners of his vision, but then it stopped completely. He felt wetness and the breeze and heard ruffling clothes, the zip of a fly. He didn't move.

"You're disgusting," Brad said.

 _I'm disgusting._

He kicked him in his ribs, but Charlie still did not move. He continued to stare at the pebble, willing it to roll on its own.

 _Disgusting._

Charlie heard the jocks release Patrick, his body crumpling like a kite dropping from its flight.

They began to walk out from underneath the overpass, when Patrick called out to them.

"I'll get you back." His teeth were outlined in red, his mouth overflowing with blood.

Brad turned, smirking. "You can try, Pat."

 **A/N:** If you liked this so far, please review! I may leave it as a one-shot, but if the demand for more is high I will be happy to oblige. Hope you enjoyed!


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